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Golden Gate 

Sfx Francisco. 

‘ —— P — ■ 










seft vistas 

IN MANY CLIMES 


JgJMtcD and IHlustrated bg 


SUSIE BARSTOW SKELDING 

• i 


With Facsimiles of Water- color Drawings 

"Men change and cease to be 
And empires grow and fall; 

But the weird music of the sea 
Lives and outlives them all." 



NEW YORK 

Copyright , 1888, by 

FREDERICK A. STOKES & BROTHER 


18S8 




ftGKNOWLGDGMeNT. 


The editor acknowledges the continued courtesy of Messrs. 
Roberts Brothers in granting the use of their publications. 

She also recognizes the personal courtesy of Mrs. Celia 
Thaxter, Mrs. Fra?ices L. Mace, and Mrs. fulia C. R. Dorr. 


S. B. S. 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 


FROM ORIGINAL SKETCHES AND PHOTOGRAPHS. 


THE GOLDEN GATE , SAN FRANCISCO. 
IN THE BAY OF NAPLES. 

FORT MARION , ST. AUGUSTINE. 

DUTCH PINCKS OFF SCHEVENINGEN. 
VENETIAN FISHING BOATS. 

TWILIGHT i MARBLEHEAD. 

ON THE CORNICE ROAD. 

BASS HARBOR LIGHT, MT. DESERT 




eONTeNTS. 


EDITED BY SUSIE BARSTOW SKELDING. 


PAGE 

THE THREE SHIPS,. 13 

(Julia C. R. Dorr.) 

THE GOLDEN GATE,. 16 

{Edward Pollock.) 

THE SUNSET CITY. 18 

{Henry Sylvester Cornwell.) 

THE GOLDEN GATE. 20 

{Adelaide A. Procter.) 

SHIPS AT SEA. 27 

{Barry Gray.) 

THE SEA,. 30 

(A nonymous.) 

UNDER THE SURFACE,. 32 

{Frances Ridley Havergal.) 

REVERIE,. 39 

{Celia Thaxler.) 

DOWN ON THE SHORE. 41 

{William Allingham.) 

TELL ME YE WINGED WINDS,. 43 

{Charles Mackay.) 

RURAL SOUNDS. 45 

(William Cowper.) 

WHAT MATTER?. 47 

{Alfred Domett.) 

A FISHING TOWN,. 53 

{Anonymous.) 

GENIUS. 54 

{Richard Hcngist Horne.) 

SPEED THE PROW. 56 

{James Montgomery.) 

DOVER BEACH. 58 

{Matthew Arnold.) 

SONG,. 60 

(//. Heine.) 





















CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

VENICE. 65 

{Samuel Rogers.) 

THE SEA,. 66 

{Bryan Waller Procter.) 

VENICE,. 68 

{Translated, by Joseph Addison.) 

SONNET. 69 

(William Wordsworth.) 

RELIQUIAE,. 70 

{Anonymous.) 

SONG, . 72 

(H. Heine.) 

WITH THE TIDE,. 77 

{Celia Thaxter.) 

A QUEST, 80 

{Louise Chandler Moulton.) 

MEETING AT NIGHT,. 82 

{Robert Browning.) 

THE LONG WHITE SEAM, . 83 

{Jean Ingelow.) 

THE EVENING GUN,. 85 

{Thomas Moore.) 

MY LIGHTHOUSES,. 91 

{Helen Jackson —“ H. //.”) 

THE PALM TREE,. 94 

{Felicia He mans.) 

FROM CHILDE HAROLD . 97 

{Lord Byron.) 

STANZAS. 98 

{Percy Bysshe Shelley.) 

FLYING MOUNTAIN,.105 

{Frances L. Mace.) 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK,.108 

{Alfred Tennyson.) 

SONG,.109 

{Maty Russell Mitford.) 

SONNET.no 

{Robert Leighton.) 

THE BEACON,.hi 

{Paul Moon James.) 






















Ttte GOLE>GN GftTG, 

SftN FRANCISCO. 

( 9 ) 








*3 


rm THRee ships. 

Over the waters clear and dark 
Flew, like a startled bird, our bark. 

All the day long with steady sweep 
Sea-gulls followed us over the deep. 

Weird and strange were the silent shores, 

Rich with their wealth of buried ores; 

Might}'' the forests, old and gray, 

With the secrets locked in their hearts away; 

Semblance of castle and arch and shrine 
Towered aloft in the clear sunshine; 

And we watched for the warder, stern and grim, 
And the priest with his chanted prayer and hymn. 

Over that wonderful northern sea, 

As one who sails in a dream, sailed we, 

Till, when the young moon soared on high, 
Nothing was round us but sea and sky. 

Far in the east the pale moon swung,— 

A crescent dim in the azure hung; 


i4 


THE THREE SHIPS. 


But the sun lay low in the glowing west, 

With bars of purple across his breast. 

The skies were aflame with the sunset glow, 
The billows were all aflame below; 

The far horizon seemed the gate 
To some mystic world’s enchanted state; 

And all the air was a luminous mist, 

Crimson and amber and amethyst. 

Then silently into that fiery sea,— 

Into the heart of the mystery,— 

Three ships went sailing one by one, 

The fairest visions under the sun. 

Like a flame in the heart of a ruby set 
Were the sails that flew from each mast of jet; 

While darkly against the burning sky, 
Streamer and pennant floated high. 

Steadily, silently on they pressed 
Into the glowing reddening west; 

Until, on the far horizon’s fold, 

They slowly passed through its gate of gold. 

You think, perhaps, they were nothing more 
Than schooners laden with common ore? 


THE THREE SHIPS. 


1 5 


Where Care clasped hands with grimy Toil, 

And the decks were stained with earthly moil ? 

Oh, beautiful ships, who sailed that night 
Into the west from our yearning sight, 

Full well I know that the freight 3 r e bore 
Was laden not for an earthly shore! 

To some far realm ye were sailing on, 

Where all we have lost shall yet be won; 

Ye were bringing thither a world of dreams, 
Bright as that sunset’s golden gleams; 

And hopes whose tremulous, rosy flush 
Grew fairer still in the twilight hush. 

Ye were bearing hence to that mystic sphere 
Thoughts no mortal may utter here,— 

Songs that on earth may not be sung,— 

Words too holy for human tongue,— 

The golden deeds that we would have done,— 

The fadeless wreaths that we would have won; 

And hence it was that our souls with you 
Traversed the measureless waste of blue, 

Till you passed under the sunset gate, 

And to us a voice said, softly, “Wait!” 

Julia C. R. Dorr. 


i6 


THG GOLDGN GftTG. 

The air is chill, and the day grows late, 

And the clouds come in through the Golden Gate: 
Phantom fleets they seem to me, 

Prom the shoreless and unsounded sea; 

Their shadowy spars and misty sails, 

Unshattered, have weathered a thousand gales: 

Slow wheeling, lo! in squadrons gray, 

They part, and hasten along the bay; 

Each to its anchorage finding way. 

Where the hills of Saucelito swell, 

Many in gloom may shelter well; 

And others—behold—unchallenged pass 
By the silent guns of Alcatras: 

No greetings of thunder and flame exchange 
The armed isle and the cruisers strange. 

Their meteor flags, so widely blown, 

Were blazoned in a laud unknown; 

So, charmed from war or wind or tide, 

Along the quiet wave they glide. 

What bear these ships?—what news, what freight, 
Do they bring us through the Golden Gate? 

Sad echoes to words in gladness spoken, 

And withered hopes to the poor heart-broken: 

Oh, how many a venture we 


THE GOLDEN GATE. 


*7 


Have rashly sent to the shoreless sea! 

How many an hour have you and I, 

Sweet friend, in sadness seen go by, 

While our eager, longing thoughts were roving 
Over the waste, for something loving, 

Something rich and chaste and kind, 

To brighten and bless a lonely mind, 

And only waited to behold 
Ambition’s gems, affection’s gold, 

Return as remorse, and a broken vow, 

In such ships of mist as I see now. 

The air is chill, and the day grows late, 

And the clouds come in through the Golden Gate, 
Freighted with sorrow, heavy with woe;— 

But these shapes that cluster, dark and low, 
To-morrow shall be all aglow! 

In the blaze of the coming morn these mists, 

Whose weight my heart in vain resists, 

Will brighten and shine, and soar to heaven, 

In thin white robes, like souls forgiven; 

For Heaven is kind, and everything, 

As well as winter, has a spring. 

So, praise to God! who brings the day 
That shines our regrets and fears away; 

For the blessed morn I can watch and wait, 

While the clouds come in through the Golden Gate. 

Edivard Pollock. 


IS 


rae suNsex city. 

There’s a city tliat lies in the Kingdom of Clouds, 
In the glorious country on high, 

Which an azure and silvery curtain enshrouds, 

To screen it from mortal eye; 

A city of temples and turrets of gold, 

That gleam by a sapphire sea, 

Like jewels more splendid than earth may behold, 
Or are dreamed of by you or by me. 

And about it are highlands of amber that reach 
Far away till they melt in the gloom 
And waters that hem an immaculate beach 
With fringes of luminous foam. 

Aerial bridges of pearl there are 
And belfries of marvelous shapes 
And lighthouses lit by the evening star, 

That sparkle on violet capes; 


THE SUNSET CITY. 


J 9 


And hanging gardens that far away 
Enchantedly float aloof; 

Rainbow pavilions in avenues gay, 

And banners of glorious woof! 

When the Summer sunset’s crimsoning fires 
Are aglow in the western sky, 

The pilgrim discovers the domes and spires 
Of this wonderful City on high; 

And gazing enrapt as the gathering shade 
Creeps over the twilight lea, 

Sees palace and pinnacle totter and fade, 

And sink in the sapphire sea; 

Till the vision loses by slow degrees 
The magical splendor it wore; 

The silvery curtain is drawn, and he sees 
The beautiful City no more! 

Henry Sylvester Cornwell. 


20 


rae golden Gftie. 

Dim shadows gather thickly round, and up the misty 
stair they climb, 

The cloudy stair that upward leads to where the 
closed portals shine, 

Round which the kneeling spirits wait the opening 
of the Golden Gate. 

And some with eager longing go, still pressing for¬ 
ward, hand in hand, 

And some, with weary step and slow, look back where 
their Beloved stand: 

Yet up the misty stair they climb, led onward by the 
Angel Time. 

As unseen hands roll back the doors, the light that 
floods the very air 

Is but the shadow from within, of the great glory 
hidden there; 

And morn and eve, and soon and late, the shadows 
pass within the gate. 


THE GOLDEN GATE. 


21 


As one by one they enter in, and the stern portals 
close once more, 

The halo seems to linger round those kneeling clos¬ 
est to the door; 

The joy that lightened from that place shines still 
upon the watcher’s face. 

The faint low echo that we hear of far-off music seems 
to fill 

The silent air with love and fear, and the world’s 
clamors all grow still, 

Until the portals close again, and leave us toiling on 
in pain. 

Complain not that the way is long: what road is 
weary that leads there? 

But let the Angel take thy hand, and lead thee up 
the misty stair 

And then with beating heart await the opening of the 
Golden Gate. 


Adelaide A . Procter . 









IN Ttte MY OP NftPbeS. 


(23) 








in IK e 

x ,.1?>AY Of Nr PLES. 

























ships m seft. 


I have ships that went to sea, 

More than fifty years ago; 

None have yet come home to me, 

But are sailing to and fro. 

I have seen them in my sleep, 

Plunging through the shoreless deep, 
With tattered sails and battered hulls, 
While around them screamed the gulls, 
Flying low, flying low. 


I have wondered why they stayed 
From me, sailing round the world; 
And I’ve said, “ I’m half afraid 

That their sails will ne’er be furled.” 
Great the treasures that they hold, 
Silks, and plumes, and bars of gold; 
While the spices that they bear 
Fill with fragrance all the air, 

As they sail, as they sail. 


28 


SHIPS AT SEA. 


All! each sailor in the port 

Knows that I have ships at sea, 
Of the winds and waves the sport, 
And the sailors pity me. 

Oft they come and with me walk, 
Cheering me with hopeful talk, 
Till I put my fears aside, 

And, contented, watch the tide 

Rise and fall, rise and fall. 


I have waited on the piers, 

Gazing for them down the ba} r , 
Days and nights for many years, 
Till I turned heart-sick away. 
But the pilots, when they land, 
Stop and take me by the hand, 
Saying, “ You will live to see 
Your proud vessels come from sea, 
One and all, one and all.” 


So I never quite despair, 

Nor let hope or courage fail; 

And some day, when skies are fair, 
Up the bay my ships will sail. 

I shall buy then all I need,— 
Prints to look at, books to read, 


SHIPS AT SEA. 


29 


Horses, wines, and works of art,— 
Everything except a heart— 

That is lost, that is lost. 

Once when I was pure and young, 

Richer, too, than I am now, 

Ere a cloud was o’er me flung, 

Or a wrinkle creased my brow, 

There was one whose heart was mine; 

But she’s something now divine, 

And though come my ships from sea, 

They can bring no heart to me 
Ever more, ever more. 

Robert Barry Coffin. 

{Barry Gray) 


30 


Tfte seft. 

The gray unresting sea 

Adown tlie bright and belting shore, 
Breaking in untold melody, 

Makes music evermore. 

Centuries of vanished time 

Since the glad earth’s primeval form, 
Have heard grand unpausing chime 
Momentarily aye new born. 

Like as in cloistered piles, 

Rich bursts of massive sound upswell, 
Ringing along dim lighted aisles, 

With spirit trancing spell. 

So in the surf-wliite strand 

Chants the deep peal the sea waves raise 
Like voices from a viewless land, 

Hymning a hymn of praise, 

By times in thunder notes 

The booming billows shoreward surge, 
By times a silver laugh infloats, 

By times a low soft dirge. 


THE SEA. 


3* 


Souls more ennobled grow 

Listing the worldless anthem rise, 
Discords are drowned in their great flow 
Of nature’s harmonies, 

Men change and cease to be, 

And empires grow and fall, 

But the weird music of the sea, 

Lives and outlives them all. 

That mystic sound shall last 

Till time itself no more shall be, 

Till seas and shores away have past, 
Lost in eternity. 


Anonymous. 


32 


UNDeK THe SMRFftee. 

I. 

On the surface, foam and roar, 

Restless heave and passionate dash, 
Shingle rattle along the shore, 

Gathering boom and thundering crash. 

Under the surface, soft green light, 

A hush of peace and an endless calm, 
Winds and waves, from a choral height, 
Falling sweet as a far-off psalm. 

On the surface, swell and swirl, 

Tossing weed and drifting waif, 

Broken spars that the mad waves whirl, 
Where wreck-watching rocks they chafe. 

Under the surface, loveliest forms, 
Feathery fronds with crimson curl, 
Treasures too deep for the raid of storms, 
Delicate coral and hidden pearl. 


UNDER THE SURFACE. 


33 


II. 

On tlie surface, lilies white, 

A painted skiff with a singing crew, 
Sky-reflections soft and bright, 

Tremulous crimson, gold, and blue. 

Under the surface, life and death, 

Slimy tangle and oozy moans, 

Creeping things with watery breath, 
Blackening roots and whitening bones. 

On the surface, a shining reach, 

A crystal couch for the moonbeam’s rest, 
Starry ripples along the beach, 

Sunset songs from the breezy west. 

Under the surface, glooms and fears, 
Treacherous currents swift and strong, 
Deafening rush in the drowning ears,— 

Have ye rightly read my song ? 

Frances Ridley Havergal. 



PORT MftRION, 

ST. ftUGMSTINe. 

( 35 ) 


« 












\ ■ * 










39 


Rei/eRie. 

The white reflection of the sloop’s great sail 
Sleeps trembling on the tide, 

In scarlet trim her crew lean o’er the rail, 

Lounging on either side. 

Pale blue and streaked with pearl the waters lie, 

And glitter in the heat; 

The distance gathers purple bloom where sky 
And glimmering coast-line meet. 

From the cove’s curving rim of sandy gray 
The ebbing tide has drained, 

Where, mournful, in the dusk of yesterday 
The curlew’s voice complained. 

Half lost in hot mirage the sails afar 
Lie dreaming, still and white ; 

No wave breaks, no wind breathes, the peace to mar, 
Summer is at its height. 

How many thousand summers thus have shown 
Across the ocean waste, 

Passing in swift succession, one by one, 

By the fierce winter chased ! 


40 


reverie. 


The gray rocks blushing soft at dawn and eve, 

The green leaves at their feet, 

The dreaming sails, the crying birds that grieve, 
Ever themselves repeat. 

And yet how dear and how forever fair 
Is Nature’s friendly face, 

And how forever new and sweet and rare 
Each old familiar grace ! 

What matters it that she will sing and smile 
When we are dead and still ? 

Let us be happy in her beauty while 
Our hearts have power to thrill. 

# 

Let us rejoice in every moment bright, 

Grateful that it is ours; 

Bask in her smiles with ever fresh delight, 

And gather all her flowers ; 

For presently we part: what will avail, 

Her rosy fires of dawn, 

Her noontide pomps, to us, who fade and fail, 

Our hands from hers withdrawn ? 

Celia Thaxter. 


4i 


DOWN ON THe SttORe. 

Down on the shore, on the sunny shore! 

Where the salt smell cheers the land ; 

Where the tide moves bright under boundless light, 
And the surge on the glittering strand ; 

Where the children wade, in the shallow pools, 

Or run from the froth in play ; 

Where the swift little boats with milkwhite wings 
Are crossing the sapphire bay, 

And the ship in full sail, with a fortunate gale, 
Holds proudly on her way. 

Where the nets are spread on the grass to dry, 

And asleep, hard by, the fishermen lie, 

Under the tent of the warm blue sky, 

With the hushing wave on its golden floor 
To sing their lullaby. 

Down on the shore, on the stormy shore! 

Beset by a growling sea, 

Whose mad waves leap on the rocky steep 
Like wolves up a traveller’s tree. 


42 


DOWN ON THE SHORE. 


Where the foam flies wide, and an angry blast 
Blows the curlew off, with a screech ; 

Where the brown sea-wrack, torn up by the roots, 
Is flung out of fishes’ reach ; 

Where the tall ship rolls on the hidden shoals, 
And scatters her planks on the beach. 

Where slate and straw through the village spin, 
And a cottage fronts the fiercest din 
With a sailor’s wife sitting sad within, 

Hearkening the wind and water’s roar, 

Till at last her tears begin. 

William Allingham. 


43 


Tebb Me, re winged winds. 

Tell me, ye winged winds, 

That round my pathway roar, 

Do ye not know some spot 

Where mortals weep no more ? 

Some lone and pleasant dell, 

Some valley in the west, 

Where free from toil and pain, 

The weary soul may rest ? 

The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, 

And sighed for pity as it answered, “ No.” 

Tell me thou mighty deep, 

Whose billows round me play, 

Know’st thou some favored spot, 

Some island far away, 

Where weary man may find 
The bliss for which he sighs,— 

Where sorrow never lives 
And friendship never dies ? 

The lond waves, rolling in perpetual flow, 

Stopped for a while, and sighed to answer,—“ No.” 


44 


TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS. 

And thou serenest moon, 

That, with sncli lovely face, 

Dost look upon the earth, 

Asleep in night’s embrace ; 

Tell me in all thy round 

Hast thou not seen some spot 
Where miserable man 
May find a happier lot ? 

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, 

And a voice, sweet but sad, responded,—“No.” 

Tell me, my secret soul, 

Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith, 

Is there no resting-place 

From sorrow, sin, and death ? 

Is there no happy spot 

Where mortals may be blest, 

Where grief may find a balm, 

And weariness a rest ? 

Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals given, 
Waved their bright wings, and whispered,—“ Yes, 
in heaven.” 


Charles Mackay. 


45 


RURftL SOUNDS. 

From “The Task.” 


Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds, 
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore 
The tone of languid Nature. Mighty winds, 
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood 
Of ancient growth, make music not unlike 
The dash of Ocean on his winding shore, 

And lull the spirit while they fill the mind; 
Unnumbered branches waving in the blast, 

And all their leaves fast fluttering all at once. 
Nor less composure waits upon the roar 
Of distant floods, or on the softer voice 
Of neighboring fountain, or of rills that slip 
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall 
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length 
In matted grass, that with a livelier green 
Betrays the secret of their silent course. 

Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds, 

But animated nature sweeter still, 

To soothe and satisfy the human ear. 

Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one 
The livelong night: nor these alone, whose notes 


46 


RURAL SOUNDS. 


Nice-fingered Art must emulate in vain; 

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 
In still repeated circles, screaming loud ; 

The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl, 

That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 
Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh, 
Yet heard in scenes where peace forever reigns, 
And only there, please highly for their sake. 

William Cowper. 


47 


WfiftT MftTTeR? 


I. 

What matter, what matter, O friend ! though the sea 
In lines of silvery fire may slide 
O’er the sands so tawny and tender and wide, 
Murmuring soft as a bee ?— 

No matter! no matter! in sooth said he : 

But the sunlit sands and the silvery play 
Are a truthful smile long pass’d away: 

No more to me. 

II. 

What matter, what matter, dear friend ! can it be 
In a long blue stripe, dim-swelling and dark 
Beneath the lighter blue headland, may mark 
All the town we can see ? 

No matter! no matter! in truth said he: 

But the streak, that fades and fades as we part, 

Is a broken voice and a breaking heart: 

No more to me. 


Alfred Domett. 









DUTCH PINCKS OPP 

setteueNiNGeN, 


(49) 













vS O 


T"\ 


t 


rmimmr I 



HE . E N I N GE M. 












53 


i! FISHING-TOWN. 

Quaint clusters of gray houses crowding down 
Unto a river’s edge ; the river wide, 

And flecked with fishing-boats beyond the town, 
Incoming with the slow incoming tide. 

Moored to the old pier-eud a smack or two 
Slow dandled by the shoreward-setting swell, 

And with their nets with every dip wet through, 
Show their black, pitchy ribs. Some far ship’s bell 
Comes in the capful of light wind that hails 
From seaward; while still louder and more loud, 
Beneath the lowering hood of ashen cloud, 

Rings the hoarse fisher’s shout. Their neariug sails 
Loom large and shadowy ; and the sunset gun 
Tells that another day is o’er and done. 


Anon. 


54 


GENIUS. 

Far out at sea,—the sun was high, 

While veer’d the wind and flapp’d the sail, 

We saw a snow-white butterfly 
Dancing before the fitful gale, 

Far out at sea. 

The little wanderer, who had lost 
His way, of danger nothing knew; 

Settled awhile upon tfle mast,— 

Then flutter’d o’er the water blue, 

Far out at sea. 

Above, there gleam’d the boundless sky; 
Beneath, the boundless ocean sheeu; 

Between them danced the butterfly, 

The spirit-life of this vast scene,— 

Far out at sea, 

The tin}' soul then soar’d away, 

Seeking the clouds on fragile wings, 

Lured b}' the brighter, purer ray 

Which hope’s ecstatic morning briugs,— 
Far out at sea. 


GENIUS. 


55 


Away he sped with shimmering glee, 

Scarce seen, now lost, yet onward borne! 
Night comes, with wind and rain, and he 
No more will dance before the Morn, 

Far out at sea. 

He dies, unlike his mates, I ween, 

Perhaps not sooner or worse cross’d ; 

And he hath felt, thought, known, and seen 
A larger life and hope—though lost 
Far out at sea. 

Richard Hengist Horne. 


^6 


^peeD T«e prow. 

Not the ship that swiftest sailetli, 

But which longest holds her way 
Onward, onward, never faileth, 

Storm and calm, to win the day ; 
Earliest she the haven gains, 

Which the hardest stress sustains, 

O’er life’s ocean, wide and pathless, 
Thus would I with patience steer ; 
No vain hope of journeying scathless, 
No proud boast to face down fear; 
Dark or bright his Providence, 

Trust in God be my defence. 

Time there was,—’t is so no longer,— 
When I crowded every sail, 

Battled with the waves, and stronger 
Grew, as stronger grew the gale ; 
But my strength sunk with the wind, 
And the sea lay dead behind. 


SPEED THE PROW. 


57 


There my bark had founder’d surely, 
But a power invisible 
Breathed upon me;—then securely, 
Borne along the gradual swell, 
Helm and shrouds, and heart renew’d, 
I my humbler course pursued. 


Now, though evening shadows blacken, 
And no star comes through the gloom, 
On I move, nor will I slacken 

Sail, though verging towards the tomb: 
Bright beyond,—on heaven’s high strand, 
Lo, the lighthouse ! land, land, land ! 


Cloud and sunshine, wind and weather, 
Sense and sight are fleeing fast; 

Time and tide must fail together, 

Life and death will soon be past; 

But where day’s last spark declines, 

Glory everlasting shines. 

fames Montgomery. 


58 


DoifeR Bereft. 

The sea is calm to-night. 

The tide is full, the moon lies fair 

Upon the straits ;—on the French coast the light 

Gleams and is gone ; the cliffs of England stand, 

Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. 

Come to the window, sweet is the night air! 

Only, from the long line of spray 

Where the sea meets the moon-blanch’d land, 

Listen ! you hear the grating roar 

Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, 

At their return, up the high strand, 

Begin, and cease, and then again begin, 

With tremulous cadence slow, and bring 
The eternal note of sadness in. 

Sophocles long ago 

Heard it on the H^gsean, and it brought 
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow 
Of human misery ; we 
Find also in the sound a thought, 

Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 


DOVER BEACH. 


59 


The sea of faith 

Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore 
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl’d. 

But now I only hear 

Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, 

Retreating, to the breath 

Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear 

And naked shingles of the world. 

Ah, love, let us be true 

To one another! for the world, which seems 
To lie before us like a land of dreams, 

So various, so beautiful, so new, 

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; 

And we are here as on a darkling plain 

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, 

Where ignorant armies clash by night. 

Matthew Arnold. 


6o 


SONG. 

We sat in the fisherman’s cottage 
With glances seaward cast, 

And the cloud mists of evening 
Towards the sky rose fast. 

The lamps within the light-house 
Flashed one by one alight, 

And in the distant offing 
A sail was still in sight. 

We spoke of storm and shipwreck, 

Of sailors how they fared, 

And how ’twixt sky and ocean 
Now joy, now peril shared. 

We spoke of distant regions 
To south and north that were, 

And of the wondrous peoples, 

And wondrous customs there. 

’Tis fragrant and bright by the Ganges, 
And giant trees uptower, 

And noble forms and silent 
Kneel to the lotus-flower. 

• • • ••••• 

The maidens breathlessly listened 
Till all were hushed at last; 

The sail was seen no longer, 

For the shades were deepening fast. 

H. Heine. 


ve NGTIftN PISHING 

B0STS. 

(6x) 



















65 


weruee. 

There is a glorious City in the Sea. 

The sea is in the broad, and narrow streets, 
Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed 
Clings to the marble of her palaces. 

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro, 

Lead to her gates. The path lies o’er the sea, 
Invisible ; and from the land we went, 

As to a floating city,—steering in, 

And gliding up her streets as in a dream, 

So smoothly, silently,—by many a dome, 
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico, 

The statues ranged along an azure sky; 

By many a pile in more than Eastern splendor, 

Of old the residence of merchant-kings ; 

The fronts of some, though time had shattered them, 
Still glowing with the richest hues of art 
As though the wealth within them had run o’er. 

Samuel Rogers. 


66 


THe seft. 

The sea! the sea ! the open sea ! 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free! 

Without a mark, without a bound, 

It runneth the earth’s wide regions round; 

It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, 
Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I’m on the sea ! I’m on the sea! 

I am where I would ever be, 

With the blue above, aud the blue below, 
And silence wheresoe’er I go. 

If a storm should come, and awake the deep, 
What matter ? I shall ride and sleep. 

I love, oh how I love to ride 

On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, 

When every mad wave drowns the moon, 

Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, 

And tells how goeth the world below, 

Aud why the sou’-west blasts do blow ! 


THE SEA. 


67 


I never was on the dull, tame shore, 

But I loved the great sea more and more, 

And backward flew to her billowy breast, 

Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s nest; 
And a mother she was and is to me, 

For I was born on the open sea ! 

The waves were white, and red the morn, 

In the noisy hour when I was born ; 

And the while it whistled, the porpoise rolled, 
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; 
And never was heard such an outcry wild 
As welcomed to life the ocean child! 

I’ve lived since then, in calm and strife, 

Full fifty summers a sailor’s life, 

With wealth to spend, and a power to range, 
But never have sought, nor sighed for change; 
And Death, whenever he comes to me, 

Shall come on the wild unbounded sea! 

Bryan Waller Procter. 


68 


¥eNiee. 

Venetia stands with endless beauties crowned, 
And as a world within herself is found. 
Hail, queen of Italy ! for years to come 
The mighty rival of immortal Rome ! 

Nations and seas are in thy states enrolled, 

And kings among thy citizens are told. 
Ausonia’s brightest ornament! by thee 
She sits a sovereign, unenslaved and free; 

By thee, the rude barbarian chased away, 

The rising sun cheers with a purer ray 
Our western world, and doubly gilds the day. 

Translation by Joseph Addison , 

from Sannazzaro. 


69 


SONNeT. 

With ships the sea was sprinkled far and nigh, 
Like stars in heaven, and joyously it show’d; 
Some lying fast at anchor in the road, 

Some veering up and down, one knew not why. 

A goodly vessel did I then espy 
Come like a giant from a haven broad ; 

And lustily along the bay she strode, 

“ Her tackling rich, and of apparel high.” 

This ship was naught to me, nor I to her, 

Yet I pursued her with a lover’s look ; 

This ship to all the rest did I prefer: 

When will she turn, and whither ? She will brook 
No tarrying; where she comes the wind must stir: 
On went she,—and due north her journey took. 

Wordsworth, 


7 ° 


RebiQuifte. 

A wild, wet night! The driving sleet 
Blurs all the lamps along the quay; 
The windows shake ; the busy street 
Is yet alive with hurrying feet; 

The winds raves from the sea. 

So let it rave ! My lamp burns bright 
My long day’s work is almost done; 
I curtain out each sound and sight— 
Of all the nights in the year, to-night 
I choose to be alone. 

Alone, with doors and windows fast, 
Before my open desk I stand. 

Alas! can twelve long months be past, 
My hidden, hidden wealth, since last 
I held thee in my hand ? 

So, there it lies ! From year to year 
I see the ribbon change; the page 
Turn yellower ; and the very tear 
That blots the writing, disappear 
And fade away with age. 


RELIQUIJE. 


7 1 


Mine eyes grow dim when they behold 
The precious trifles hoarded there— 

A ring of battered Indian gold, 

A withered harebell, and a fold 
Of sunny chestnut hair. 

Not all the riches of the earth, 

Not all the treasures of the sea, 

Could buy these house-gods from my hearth; 
And yet the secret of their worth 
Must live and die with me. 

Anonymous. 


72 


SONG, 

I LEANED against the mast and watched, 
Each wave as on it bore me. 

Sweet fatherland ! adieu ! my bark 
Flies merrily before me. 

Love’s home I pass, the sunlight shafts, 
The window panes are laving; 

I strain my longing eyes to catch 
The sign no hand is waving. 

Ye tears, away! mine eyes forsake, 

Lest dim their gaze be growing; 

My aching heart, break not beneath 
Thine anguish overflowing! 


H. Heine. 


TWILIGHT, MftRBteHeftD, 


( 73 ) 







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I^Tarblehe^d H^ss. 


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77 


WITH THe TIDe. 

Swift o’er the water my light yacht dances, 

Flying fast from the wind of the South; 

Bright from the bowsprit the white foam glances, 
And straight we steer for the harbor’s mouth. 

The coast line dim from the haze emerges, 

With tender tints of the spring-time toned; 

On silver beaches roll sparkling surges, 

And woods are green on the hills enthroned. 

The sentinel light-houses watch together, 

As the stately river we reach at last; 

The robins sing in the blithe May weather, 

And the flood-tide bears us onward fast. 

From bank to bank flows a chorus mellow 
Of rippling frogs and of singing birds; 

The fields are starry with flowers of yellow, 

And green slopes pasture the lowing herds. 


78 WITH THE TIDE. 

A lovely perfume blows softly over 
From apple-blossoms on either side, 

From golden willow and budding clover, 

And many a garden of lowly pride. 

And a lazy echo of glad cocks crowing 
From door-yards cozy rings far and near! 

And the city’s murmur is slowly growing 
From out the distance distinct and clear. 

Over the river, so broadly flowing, 

Cottages look from the sheltering trees; 

And out through the orchard, with blossoms snowing, 
Comes a brown-haired maiden from one of these. 

She waves her hand as in friendly token, 

And watches my swift boat sailing 011; 

I answer her signal—no word is spoken, 

’Tis but a moment, and she is gone. 

And when, from the far-off town returning, 

Dropping down with the ebbing tide, 

Seaward we sail, with the sunset burning 
O’er wastes of the ocean, lone and wide, 

And in the orchard her white hand lifted 
Shows like a waft of a sea-bird’s wing, 

While the rosy blossoms are o’er her drifted, 

And loud with rapture the robins sing. 


WITH THE TIDE. 


79 


I know her not and shall know her never, 

But ever I watch for that friendly sign; 

And up or down with the stately river 
Her lovely greeting is always mine. 

And her presence lends to the scene a glory, 

More beauty to blossom and stream and tree ; 
And back o’er the wastes of the ocean hoary 
Her gentle image I take with me. 

Celia Thaxter. 


So 


ft 

All in tlie summer even, 

When sea and sky were bright, 

As royally the sunset 

Went forth to meet the night, 

My Love and I were sailing 
Into the shining West, 

To find some Happy Island, 

Some Paradise of rest. 

We steered where sunset splendor 
Made golden all the shore; 

The rocks behind its brightness 
Were cruel as before. 

Within the caves sang sirens, 

But there the whirlpools be : 

Not there the Happy Islands, 

Not there the peaceful sea. 

Toward the deep mid-ocean 

Tides ran and swift winds blew : 

It must be there those Islands 
Await the longing view. 


A QUEST. 


81 


Their shores are soft with verdure, 

Their skies for ever fair, 

And always is the fragrance 
Of blossoms on the air. 

I set our sail to seek them, 

But she, my Love, drew back: 

“ Not yet; the night is chilly, 

I fear that unknown track.” 

So home we sailed, at twilight, 

To the familiar shore ; 

Turned from the golden glory, 

To live the old life o’er. 

We’ll make no further ventures,— 

For timid is my Love,— 

Until fresh sailing orders 
Are sent us from above. 

Then past the deep mid-ocean 
’Twixt life and life we’ll steer, 

To land on happier islands 

Thau those we dreamed of here. 

Louise Chandler Moulton. 


82 


MGGTING ftT NIGHT. 

I. 

The gray sea and the long black land ; 

And the yellow half-moon large and low; 

And the startled little waves that leap 
In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 

As I gain the cove with pushing prow 
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand. 

II. 

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ; 

Three fields to cross till a farm appears; 

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 
And the blue spurt of a lighted match, 

And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, 
Than the two hearts beating each to each ! 

Robert Browning. 


TttG LONG WfilTC SGM. 


As I came round the harbor buo}'-, 

The lights began to gleam, 

No wave the land-locked water stirred, 

The crags were white as cream; 

And I marked my love by candle-light 
Sewing her long white seam. 

It’s aye sewing ashore, my dear, 
Watch and steer at sea, 

It’s reef and furl, and haul the line, 
Set sail and think of thee. 


I climbed to reach her cottage door; 

O sweetly my love sings ! 

Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, 
My soul to meet it springs 
As the shining water leaped of old, 

When stirred by angel wings. 

Aye longing to list anew, 

Awake and in my dream, 

But never a song she sang like this, 
Sewing her long white seam. 


8 4 


THE LONG WHITE SEAM. 


Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, 

That brought me in to thee, 

And peace drop down on that low roof 
For the sight that I did see, 

And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear 
All for the love of me. 

For O, for O, with brows bent low 
By the candle’s flickering gleam, 

Her wedding gown it was she wrought. 
Sewing the long white seam. 

Jean Inge low. 


85 


Tfte gwgning gun. 

REMEMB’REST thou that setting sun, 
The last I saw with thee, 

When loud we heard the ev’ning gun 
Peal o’er the twilight sea ? 

Boom !—the sounds appear’d to sweep 
Far o’er the verge of day, 

Till, into realms beyond the deep, 

They seem’d to die away. 

Oft, when the toils of day are done, 

In pensive dreams of thee, 

I sit to hear that ev’ning gun, 

Peal o’er the stormy sea. 

Boom !—and while, o’er billows curl’d, 
The distant sounds decay, 

I weep and wish, from this rough world, 
Like them, to die away. 


Thomas Moore. 






































































on ttte corn ice mm. 


(87) 
























9 i 


MY LIGfiTttOHSeS. 

At westward window of a palace gray, 

Which its own secret still so safely keeps 
That no man now its builder’s name can say, 
I lie and idly sun myself to-day, 

Dreaming awake far more than one who sleeps, 
Serenely glad, although my gladness weeps. 


I look across the harbor’s misty blue, 

And find and lose that magic shifting line 

Where sky one shade less blue meets sea, and through 

The air I catch one flush as if it knew 

Some secret of that meeting, which no sign 

Can show to eyes so far and dim as mine. 

More ships than I can count build mast by mast, 
Gay lattice-work with waving green and red 
Across my window-panes. The voyage past, 

They crowd to anchorage so glad, so fast, 

Gliding like ghosts, with noiseless breath and tread, 
Mooring like ghosts, with noiseless iron and lead. 


92 


MY LIGHTHOUSES. 


“ O ships and patient men who fare by sea,” 

I stretch my hands and vainly questioning cry, 

“ Sailed ye from west ? How many nights could ye 
Tell by the lights just where my dear and free 
And lovely laud lay sleeping ? Passed ye by 
Some danger safe, because her fires were nigh ? ” 

Ah me! my selfish yearning thoughts forget 
How darkness but a hand’s-breadtli from the coast 
With danger in an evil league is set! 

Ah! helpless ships and men more helpless yet, 

Who trust the land-lights’ short and einpt}' boast; 
The lights ye bear aloft and pikers avail ye most. 

But I—ah, patient men who fare by sea, 

Ye would but smile to hear this empt}^ speech,— 

I have such beacon-lights to burn for me, 

In that dear west so lovely, new, and free, 

That evil league by day, by night, can teach 
No spell whose harm my little bark can reach. 

No towers of stone uphold those beacon-lights; 

No distance hides them, and no storm can shake; 

In valleys they light up the darkest nights, 

They outshine sunny days on sunny heights ; 

They blaze from every house where sleep or wake 
My own who love me for my own poor sake. 


MY LIGHTHOUSES. 


93 


Each thought they think of me lights road of flame 
Across the seas ; no travel on it tires 
My heart. I go if they but speak my name ; 

From Heaven I should come and go the same, 

And find this glow forestalling my desires. 

My darlings, do you not hear me? Trim the fires! 

{H. H.) 

Helen Jackson. 


94 


THe P&bM TKee. 

It waved not through an Eastern sky, 

Beside a font of Araby ; 

It was not fanu’d by southern breeze 
In some green Isle of Indian seas, 

Nor did its graceful shadow sleep 
O’er stream of Afric, lone and deep. 

But fair the exiled palm-tree grew 
Midst foliage of no kindred hue; 

Through the laburnum’s dropping gold 
Rose the light shaft of orient mould, 

And Europe’s violets faintly sweet, 

Purpled the moss-beds at its feet. 

Strange look’d it there!—the willow stream’d 
Where silvery waters near it gleam’d; 

The lime-bough lured the honey-bee 
To murmur by the desert’s tree, 

And showers of snowy roses made 
A lustre in its fan-like shade. 


THE PALM TREE. 


9 5 


There came an eve of festal hours— 

Rich music fill’d that garden’s bowers; 
Lamps that from flowering branches hung, 
On sparks of dew soft colors flung, 

And bright forms glanced—a fairy show— 
Under the blossoms to and fro. 

But one, a lone one, midst the throng 
Seem’d reckless of all dance or song: 

He was a youth of dusky mien, 

Whereon the Indian sun had been. 

Of crested brow, and long black hair— 

A stranger, like the palm-tree there. 

And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, 
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms ; 

He pass’d the pale green olives by, 

Nor won the chestnut-flowers his eye; 

But when to that sole palm he came, 

Then shot a rapture through his frame! 

To him, to him its rustling spoke, 

The silence of his soul it broke! 

It whisper’d of his own bright isle, 

That lit the ocean with a smile; 

Ay, to his ear that native tone 

Had something of the sea-wave’s moan ! 


THE PALM TREE. 


96 


His mother’s cabin home, that lay 
Where feathery cocoas fringed the bay; 

The dashing of his brethren’s oar, 

The conch-note heard along the shore;— 

All through his wakening bosom swept, 

He clasp’d his country’s tree and wept! 

Oh ! scorn him not!—the strength whereby 
The patriot girds himself to die, 

The unconquerable power, which fills 
The freeman battling on his hills, 

These have one fountain deep and clear— 
The same whence gush’d the child-like tear! 

Felicia Hemans. 


97 


FROM OHIbDe HftRObD. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 

There is society, where none intrudes, 

By the deep Sea, aud music in its roar: 

I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 

From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 

To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 

Man marks the earth with ruin—his control 
Stops with the shore ;—upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own, 

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin’d and unknown. 

Lord Byron. 


9 8 


The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 

The waves are dancing fast and bright; 

Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
The purple uoou’s transparent light; 

The breath of the moist air is light 
Around its nnexpanded buds ; 

Tike many a voice of one delight, 

The winds, the birds, the ocean hoods, 

The city’s voice itself is soft, like solitude’s. 

I see the deep’s untrampled floor 

With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; 

I see the waves upon the shore, 

Tike light dissolved in star-showers, thrown : 

I sit upon the sands alone ; 

The lightning of the noontide ocean 
Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion, 

How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 

Nor peace within nor calm around, 

Nor that content surpassing wealth 
The sage in meditation found, 


STANZAS. 


99 


And walked with inward glory crowned,— 

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. 

Others I see whom these surround,— 

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ;— 

To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild, 

Even as the winds and waters are; 

I could lie down like a tired child, 

And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne, and yet must bear, 

Till death, like sleep, might steal on me, 

And I might feel in the warm air 

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony. 

Some might lament that I were cold, 

As I, when this sweet day is gone, 

Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 

Insults with this untimely moan; 

They might lament—for I am one 
Whom men love not—and yet regret, 

Unlike this day, which, when the sun 
Shall on its stainless glory set, 

Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 









































































BftSS HftRBOR RIGHT 

m. DeseRT. 


(101) 











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MIDSUMMER ON MOUNT DCSCRT, 
PLYING MOUNTAIN. 


The craggy height is Avon! O smiling sea, 
How tranquilly upon thy lulling breast 
The islands dream! We too with Memory 
Will muse awhile and rest. 

St. Savior’s Valley, bright with morning dew, 
Low at our feet in waking beauty glows, 

Its borders tinted with the sea-shell hue 
Of the wild wayside rose. 

The tide flows inland; not a sound is heard; 

No whirl of worldly tumult here is known; 
Hither across the wave the ocean bird 
Flies homeward and alone. 

Twice has the century-plant its ripened flower 
Opened and scattered on this breezy crag, 
And full again its blossom, since the hour 
When France her lily flag 


io 6 


MIDSUMMER ON MOUNT DESERT. 


Flung o’er these unknown waters. Wild with glee 
The sailors moored, and vowed to roam no more; 

But three , in priestly vestments, reverently 
Knelt as they touched the shore. 

To them the grandeur of the mountain isle 
Had but one meaning, woke but one desire,— 

To speed the hour when all these heights should smile 
Upon their altar fire. 

A cross of rude device was planted here, „ 

The first uplifted on New England’s shore, 

And “ Gloria in excelsis ” floated clear 
The wondering woodlands o’er. 

Brief was the sojourn of these pilgrims brave, 

Patient in toil, content to pray and wait; 

For riding fast upon the troubled wave 
Came Argali’s ship of fate ! 

A sudden rain of fire, the swift advance 
Of gleaming arms upon a helpless band, 

And cross of Rome and flowery flag of France 
Fell ’neath the Briton’s hand. 

No sign remains. The dew-bespangled moss 
Safe in its breast the burial secret keeps ; 

But on this plain, beneath his shattered cross, 

Du Thet, the gallant, sleeps. 


MIDSUMMER ON MOUNT DESERT. 107 

Soldier and priest! From Flying Mountain’s height 
We render homage to a sacred spot: 

Thine the first grave in all this valley bright, 

The last to be forgot. 

Fall softly, blossoms of the century-tree ! 

Fong would we keep our isle’s historic fame; 
Teach thy blue waves to whisper, faithful sea, 

St. Savior’s ancient name. 

Frances L. Mace. 


io3 


BRefiK, BReftK, BKeftK. 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 

And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman’s boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play ! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings with his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill; 

But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 

But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


The sun is careering in glory and might, 

’Mid the deep blue sky and the cloudlets white; 
The bright wave is tossing its foam on high, 

And the summer breezes go lightly by; 

The air and the w r ater dance, glitter, and play, 

And why should not I be as merry as they ? 

The linnet is singing the wild wood through : 

The fawn’s bounding footstep skims over the dew; 
The butterfly flits round the flowering tree, 

And the cowslip and bluebell are bent by the bee ; 
All the creatures that dwell in the forest are gay, 
And why should not I be as merry as they ? 

Mary Russell Mitford. 


no 


SONNeT. 


To a Lighthouse at Night, 

Seen from the Sea. 

Spirit of Caledonia’s rocky coast! 

Tliy pale beam, glimmering like a star of night, 
Looks o’er the sea awhile : anon ’tis lost; 

Then comes forth in a blaze of purest light, 

I/ike a lost soul redeem’d, again it wanes: 

But soon a blood-flame gleams upon the sight, 
Like a thrall’d warrior bursting from his chains, 
Stunning the world with wonder of his might.— 
Bright beacon lamp! thou may’st be liken’d to 
The Book of God—the beacon-light of Heaven ; 
Thou appear’st in different shades, yet all are true 
The Heavenly light is like thee in this, even: 
Your ends are one—a blessed end! for both 
Are lamps to light the nighted pilgrim’s path. 

Robert Leighton. 


Ill 


THe BefteoN. 

The scene was more beautiful, far, to the eye, 

Than if day in its pride had arrayed it: 

The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky 
Looked pure as the spirit that made it. 

The murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed 
On the shadowy waves’ playful motion, 

From the dim, distant isle, till the lighthouse fire 
blazed 

Like a star in the midst of the ocean. 

No longer the joy of the sailor-boy’s breast 
Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers ; 

The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest, 

The fisherman sunk to his slumbers. 

One moment I looked from the hill’s gentle slope, 
All hushed was the billows’ commotion; 

And o’er them the lighthouse looked lovely as 
hope,— 

That star of life’s tremulous ocean. 


112 


THE BEACON. 


The time is long past, and the scene is afar, 

Yet, when my head rests on its pillow, 

Will memory sometimes rekindle the star 
That blazed on the breast of the billow: 

In life’s closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, 
And death stills the heart’s last emotion, 

Oh, then may the seraph of Mercy arise, 

Like a star on eternity’s ocean ! 

Paul Moon James. 















































































